Whoa, Doggy! A stop-and-go experience

Convinced I looked like a complete idiot, I set the timer on my digital camera, set it on my car bumper and tried to look as cool as I could. But, I think, with the get-up I'd put together, that would have been impossible.

I had my husband's weight-lifting belt and resistance bands I'd borrowed to save money on a professional-grade skijor belt and towline. I had his boring black snowboard helmet, my red parka and almost-matching red snowpants, my father's old ski boots and the yellowed skis and hunter-safety orange poles my parents originally bought for my brother when he was in middle school more than 25 years ago.

For good measure and to add a dash of "cool," I threw in a pair of sporty sunglasses.

"Well," I thought as I reviewed the picture, "I guess nobody's going to see me out here. But, with the all-red, ski-patrol-worthy outfit I've got on, at least the search and rescue helicopter will be able to find me."

Saber managed to wrap himself around my legs no less than five times as I struggled to secure my ski boots into the old mouse-trap style cross-country ski bindings, nearly knocking me to the ground before we even hit the trail.

"No way. I'm not going down here. Not in the driveway. Not with cars passing by," I said out loud to my dog Saber, as if he - a dog that sniffs his best friends' tail ends and routinely raids the kitty litter box - has any sense of vanity.

I untwisted the dog and, in his excitement to figure out exactly what in the world we were doing, immediately bounded back and forth so much he had both his front legs wrapped up in the towline.

And I was worried about speed. Heck, we couldn't even get started.

As much as I wanted to, I tried to refrain from calling him by his pet name, "Dummy Doggy." I didn't want to crush his confidence when I needed him to be strong and pull.

"Saber, over here, buddy," I called out as we got in line on the trail behind our house, gently pulling the bungee back toward me as I tried to persuade him to forget the twitting he'd heard in the low snow-covered bushes.

For the first 100 yards, we'd have to break trail, which was just as well. I figured a little natural resistance would keep my rambunctious pup from going too fast.

I hadn't planned on a Sunday driver dog.

The snow was up to his chest. He plodded along laboriously. Slow, but steady, until the tips of my skis nipped him in his rear paws on a slight downhill slope and he leaped to attention, suddenly barreling ahead toward our neighbor's house next door.

I hoped they weren't home. They're my in-laws, but there are some things you just don't want anybody to see and me careening awkwardly behind my goofy sled dog was one of those things.

Still, I was anxious to feel the speed of riding on the trails laid down by my father-in-law's Polaris Ranger, for which he had recently purchased snow tracks.

I pulled the digital camera out of the camera bag I had slung over my shoulders, hung it around my neck, switched it to video mode and pressed the shutter button to begin recording.

Our first outing took just about an hour. We covered maybe a mile of trail.

The phone rang almost as I walked in the door.

It was my father-in-law. He didn't have to say anything.

"What? Did you see me go by?" I asked as soon I picked up the phone.

He laughed.

"Yeah, all I saw was this red streak."